Equilibrium
by radishface
Summary: In which the consequences of Adrian's actions come back in the form of a very specific type of punishment at the hands of Edward Blake. Adrian/Eddie, oneshot, rated R.


**Equilibrium**

Watchmen → Ozy/Comedian, and some random OCs.  
_Summary: In which the consequences of globalization and regionalism are window!sex and gunplay. _  
A/N, From the Watchmen kinkmeme prompts for a number of things, including window!sex, improvised!toys, masochistic!Adrian, quickanddirty!, among others.

**radishface**

[#]

"Here you are, _Vei-dto-san_." A demure murmuring, a faint shuffling of her _tabi_, and she's gone like she was never there. Ceramic clinks all around, the sake warming their hands like it warms the air, in tiny, thimble-like cups and the pungent-sweet smell of rice.

"_Kampai_, gentlemen." Adrian raises his cup once more. "Let us work together diligently in the coming business quarter." Murmurs ascend all around, and Adrian lifts the cup to his lips, the first touch of sake on his tongue like smooth acid.

It takes a while for the group to warm up, but an hour into their meal and countless toasts later, they're sitting with his legs sprawled in front of them instead of tucked under, and jackets have been tossed to the side, collars unbuttoned and ties loosened. Their server has even joined in on the fun, shucking her _tabi_ off by the entrance to the room and lounging around in her bare feet, giggling and demurring appropriately when the older men make advances on her, the exuberant rise and fall of their Japanese like the sounds of puddling water and rain in a brook.

"Moshiyoto-_san_," she squeals helplessly as the man in question tickles her feet and calls her cutesy names.

"Don't be so shy, Komoko-chan, you really don't look a day past twenty-five,"

"_Iie_—-don't _say_ things like that!"

The next few courses come in pristinely presented bento boxes, all small bites of food arranged delicately on geometrically-grated mounds of translucent radish, raw slices of tuna and salmon gleaming in jewel tones. Adrian fishes for a green clump of wasabi and mixes it in his soy sauce dish, idly watching the green flakes blur murkily over the film of blackish-brown while commenting to Gochiro-_san_ that now that with the seventies coming to a close, isn't it time for Japan to focus on the production of sustainable energy?

"Oh, _Vei-dto-san_, but shipbuilding is Japan's lifeline." There is a touch of pride to Gochiro's voice. "You understand that producing oil tankers has been Kamasaki Enterprises' legacy since the late fifties—and our analysts say that the demand for oil will only continue to grow—-"

"And you will fuel that demand?" Adrian takes another sip of his sake, and ignores the way Gochiro looks at him, slightly bewildered.

"I don't understand," Gochiro's voice is thoughtful.

Adrian sets his cup down, of course, it had slipped his mind, one only drinks when everybody drinks. "As captains of industry, you shouldn't just be-—mm-—_swayed_ by the demands of the time. Perhaps you should try shaping it; creating industry where there exists none."

"Ah," and Gochiro is all detached diplomacy now. "Well, it would be an interesting direction to consider, but our agreement only extends as far as—-"

And Komoko-_chan_ is squealing again, and Gochiro starts at the sound before regaining his composure. There's something like chastisement mixed in with the self-depreciation that is on the tip of everyone's tongues in this place, and he smiles blithely at Adrian. "But now is not the time to be talking about business, _ne?_ That was all finished hours ago. You are only here for another one more evening, and we haven't even been down to the springs yet. Everybody—" And Gochiro is rapping his knuckles on the table, getting their attention, "let's have another toast--"

Another round, another round, Adrian is on his fifth bottle, feeling sticky-sweet and wishing that they were all in _yukatas_ instead ("when we go down to the baths, _Vei-dto-san_," Gochiro says sagely) when there's a sharp sound at the door. "Excuse me, _minna-san,"_ the muffled sound of a woman's voice from the other side, "but there's a gentleman in the adjoining room who requests that you try to make a little less noise."

Moshiyoto bursts out, "we paid for this place, didn't we?" There are nods and grunts and murmurs of acquiescence all around, and the mood has suddenly soured.

"_Gomen, demo_-—" The woman's voice, again. "But—"

Adrian stands up and smiles benignly. "Please continue, gentlemen. I'll see what the trouble is."

He's shut the door behind him before they can protest. The _obaasan_ in charge of the restaurant looks at him apologetically, bowing her head over and over again. "_Gomen, Vei-dto-san_, but there is a gentleman who—-"

"No worries." Adrian flashes the same smile at her, knowing that its usual softness features an edge, now that the drink has manifested. His hands feel too warm, clammy from perspiration of bottles and skin. "Is there a washroom down this way?"

"Yes, yes, just keep following the hallway down," more bowing, "and you'll find it."

He's not surprised, when he turns the corner and almost runs into a hulking figure blocking his way, a familiar cologne and a smell deeper than that, and his voice resumes its normal tenor after a week full of Japanese.

"Eddie." Pauses. "Or should I say, _Buraeku-san_?"

"Don't start that." Eddie's voice is gruff. "I've had enough of this goddamned country for one day."

They stand there in the quiet for a beat, neither of them moving. They can hear the sound of the fountain in the foyer, the waterslick, bubbling flow of Japanese from the rooms in the back, the occasional bark of laughter, loud and long. Adrian breaks the silence first.

"Are you alone tonight?"

"What, you coming on to me now?" Eddie's voice holds its customary smirk, though something sounds genuinely bitter in his voice, all teeth and narrowed eyes.

"Perhaps I should restate that. I was merely inquiring after your company."

Eddie scoffs. "If I'm here with suits, you mean."

"I suppose."

"Could ask the same thing," Eddie spits out. "Where's your little financier lapdog?"

"Ari's father recently passed away," Adrian shrugs. "So I volunteered to close the deal while he attended the funeral."

"Goldberg wouldn't just chicken out like that because of some sob story." Eddie steps in closer, and they're breath-for-breath now. "You knew, didn't you. What I'm here to do. Supposed to do."

Adrian supposes that they make an intimidating pair, two _gaijin_ in the restaurant out here all the way in Kamakura, this middle of nowhere, seaside resort of a town, soaring skies and jagged cliffs the only witnesses to a body dropped over the rocks, into the crushing waves.

Adrian shakes his head, but not in acquiescence. "Look, Eddie. Perhaps now isn't the best time for this discussion—"

"Fuck that," Eddie says, "you know who you're dealing with, right? Fucking Japs. Just try to remember that when you shake their little yellow hands. Remember what they _started._"

"I'm quite aware," Adrian says, knows that _Eddie_ knows that this is futile, that you might try to stop the tide of the world, this thing called the future. But the world is composed of those who take action and their reactionary counterparts, those who follow blindly on the heels of trailblazers, and so there's nowhere to go except forward and on.

Adrian likes to think of himself as a little of both.

"It's your turf now," Eddie says, and takes a step back. "I'm not going to touch those other guys."

"It would look bad if one of them disappeared tonight, wouldn't it?" Adrian smiles, feels the words slither through his lips, almost unbidden. "But I hardly think that framing me for murder would help save—- ah-— precious American jobs." Emphasizes the last three words, drawling deliberately over them.

"Given your monopoly of the markets, fuck no." There's something like admiration mixed in with the disgust, the essence of what makes this man who he is—- a sharp, rooted irony that defines everything, the ability to keenly feel and understand either side of any argument, and press on still, untrapped by the steel gauze of paradox.

Eddie's walking away now, his voice trailing after him, "I'll see you back on _terra firma._"

[#]

Weeks later, the stoplight malfunctions at the intersection of seventh and Broadway. There's only a few people out at four thirty in the morning, but the cars shuffle back and forth in regular volume, hazy glimmers in the grey hours of early dawn. The victim hadn't bothered to take his car to work that morning and doesn't look both ways before he crosses.

The pickup truck, blood splattered to the front, DNA coagulated on the license plate— they'd found the hit-and-run driver soon after the accident, ID'd him as a menial worker at the city power plant, driving back home after powering through a guy's night out at the local bar. He admitted to driving under the influence and said that he'd offered to give one of the guys at the bar a ride home, and that it was his passenger that had instructed him to take this route. When pressed for answers, he said he didn't remember who it was who he drove back, except that he had a sharp sense of humor and a penchant for gut-busting, hilarious war stories.

Twelve years in prison, the price for his misdemeanors, the price of many things: one count of driving under the influence, one count of manslaughter, the death of one Dr. Ari Goldberg, executive at Veidt Enterprises.

The noise at the headquarters swirls and shifts and expands, keening to an uproar, and the phones are ringing and ringing and ringing and people are shouting above the fray to make their voices heard, shouting stock prices and logistics and did you hears. All this and more for the price of regionalism, modern mercantilism, xenophobia; fundamentalists, patriots, conservatives, all eating from the same hand that they bite, slaves to industry and capitalism, this machine of industry, an entity beyond human grasp.

Fortunately, Adrian has already made all the necessary arrangements.

[#]

The lights shut off abruptly in his office, sending his ears ringing in the sudden absence of the dull, thrumming buzz of flourescent noise. Adrian waits thirty seconds, then one minute, then longer, in the inky darkness that is not absolute enough to call itself black. His eyes gradually adjust to the grey-yellow light that the city lights cast from his window before they land on a shadowy, shifting form at the entrance to the room.

"Eddie," he says, and he's surprised, he's surprised for the first time in so long. Eddie is walking toward the desk, all fluid, hulking motion and unreadable eyes. "What are you—"

The other man snaps out and grabs a fistful of Adrian's hair, and Adrian doesn't have any time to react before Eddie pulls him forward and slams his face into the desk, and Adrian only turns to the side just in time to avoid smashing his nose.

"I hear there's already a new guy on board." Eddie's voice is gravely and thick, and he slams Adrian's head down on the mahogany again.

Adrian exhales sharply, pain cracking throughout his skull like electricity. "You understand that I had to move quickly after our previous CFO was—ah—" that hand, grinding against his ear, pushing his cheek against the lacquered wood, "—taken out of commission. I hope you and your--" he winces, "_employers_ aren't too upset."

"This is just a warning, Ozy-boy," and Adrian feels his face pinch at the pain, the condescending nickname now, the way that it rolls off Eddie's tongue so normally, almost affectionately, if only for the reaction it inspires. "If you don't want to be the next target, lay off the overseas deals."

His head is ringing, and he should move, but something is telling him to stay put, something, the perpetual desire for justice inside and out, fairness—"this deal with Kamasaki is all about job creation," Adrian raises his palms to the table, tries to push himself up. Eddie wrangles elbow across his back, pinning him in place. "Perhaps your—- nnh—-" and the other man must have hit a pressure point of some sort because his legs feel numb, heavy, they won't move, "commissioners should hire some new analysts, since they can't understand the long term effects of a partnership with a logistics industry leader."

Eddie's face is close behind him now, short, hot breaths gusting past his ear. "Oh, everybody understands perfectly. You staff the Kamasaki board with your men in under five years and based on your current ventures into energy research, you'll taper off production of tankers. Big Oil doesn't like what you're doing. Washington doesn't like what you're doing. Where does that leave this country's investment in the Middle East?"

"'Investments is just another euphemism for 'war'—"

Eddie takes in his comment with a snort, flipping Adrian over so that they're face to face. The air heats between them, breaths mingling messily, and Adrian can feel the condensation on his cheek, the vaporization of sweat and musk and flame-slick scents, Edward Blake. "You must be planning the biggest war yet, based on your cash flow." Eddie's grin is knowing and unforgiving. "A goddamned war against human nature. But that's not the problem."

Adrian makes a muffled, pained sound as he's spun back up and slammed against the plate glass window, the touch of it against his skin, alien and flat, temperature of the night outside, all cold and unfeeling and ice-blue reflections. "Eddie—" he gasps.

"Here and now," and Eddie's got one hand around his wrists, pinning him against the window, the other one working its way down Adrian's back, sluicing trails of static in their wake, pressure-hot, "you've got a lot of people angry at you. A lot of people at the wrong end of your deals. And you'll have to meet with them to shut them up with all that smooth, liberal talk of yours-— but until then, you're dealing with me."

And Adrian remembers why he won't move, the same reason he knows that he's still Ozymandias, all these years past, his public identity still a secret, in so many ways.

"Can't put you on the wrong end of a deal, that's not my job." Eddie reaches into his pockets for something, and Adrian hears the familiar _clicksnap_ of a gun's safety being unlatched and then there's something being dragged against his inner thigh, slowly, gradually, nuzzle pushed into his skin. "You know what I can do for you, though? I can give you a taste of what it's like to be on the other end of a different kind of weapon."

The deaths of so many dreams, the innocent faces of those left jobless and homeless and out on the streets, dignities shattered and stampeded on, and Adrian will feel them all, see them all.

"Nothing to say? This is a first." The slick curve of the muzzle pressed against his jaw. "Open up. Pretend it's my dick."

Eddie—in his own way—understands. Knows the part he plays.

"Open up that pretty mouth of yours or I'll blow off your head."

It is easy, much easier than he thought it would be, and he parts his lips to admit the cold steel, the taste of soot and Jericho 941 on his tongue as Eddie reaches around and undoes Adrian's belt, leather snagging on the loops, zipper dragging down. Pushes his pants down with one hand, keeping the other hand above the two of them, suspending Adrian's hands against the wall.

"You're lucky that Keene didn't suck you of your _powers_," that word spit out like venom, "that you're still allowed to _use_ them, that Washington doesn't understand that you're a bigger threat than all of us combined—"

And Eddie's undressing now, the familiar clink and swish of a belt buckle being undone, a hardness pressed up behind Adrian, and Adrian sucks in a breath, deep and hard, closes his eyes tightly but then forces himself to open them, to bear witness to this, his reflection shining faintly in the glass, wide-eyed and flushed and a bruise flowering on one side of his face, the gun pushing in and out of his mouth.

Eddie spits on his hand, slicks his cock and aligns it, and Adrian can feel it pressing up against him, a pinpoint of hot contact and he's shivering, is it with fear, and he doesn't know, he doesn't _know_, and there's a thrill in not knowing what it is he's _feeling_—-

"Imagine how Dreiberg or Sally's kid feel, day in and day out, with all their gadgets and training gone to waste and here you are—- _nngh_-—" Eddie pushes in, and Adrian cries around the gun, choking in his throat, nausea curling in his gut and the pain of his gag reflex, but Adrian tells himself that this is easier than dying, easier than what the future holds—-

"-—sitting pretty in your ivory tower." The other man's voice is husky, and Adrian can hear the note of struggle in it, his own pleasure obvious and throbbing in Adrian's ass, long and hard and thick and Adrian is thrashing in Eddie's grip and arching back because he can't help it, this feeling—-

"More," he whispers.

Eddie stops moving, stands completely still. Adrian can feel the faint pulse of the other man inside, the weight of all the things that need to be said cluttering noisily between them; it's just the two of them and the city, and from up here Adrian can spread his arms wide and embrace it all—-

"_More_," he gasps, louder.

And then Eddie's shoved him forward into the glass, every thrust knocking his head forward against the window repeatedly, the wind pushed out of his lungs, "if_ this_ is what you like, _ahh--_" he grunts, presses a mouth roughly to the back of Adrian's neck, bites there and laughs at the same time, a sharp exhale of breath, and Adrian hisses, arches back, breathing ragged when Eddie mouths against his ear, "then I'll give it to you."

Black and yellow spots swimming in his vision as he snatches at wisps of air, cheekbones aching and lips numb around the barrel of the gun until Eddie drops it, the Jericho clattering to the floor and kicked ungraciously off to the side, an oblique vector. "_Fuck_," Eddie groans, and grasps Adrian's hips in earnest with both hands. Adrian's arms are numb by this point but he braces himself against the window and his hips are rocking back into the other man's of their own volition, and Adrian can feel the sweat slicking his back, making his shirt stick to him, dripping down into the crack of his ass, down his legs.

Eddie tenses behind him and gasps, a deep, choked rumble of sound, as if shocked, thrusting in and out of Adrian furiously as he spends himself, over and over and coming inside.

The only sounds are their breaths, coming hard and wet in the black space around them, the distant whine of cars and horns and city noises beneath them. Eddie steps back, an abrupt motion, slipping out and disentangling the two of them. Adrian sinks to his knees, knuckles and fingers scrabbling weakly for purchase against the glass plate.

Fingers on his face, wrenching him around, and he's looking at Eddie again, that spectacularly rough, scarred, ungentle face, the frown lines there even as the other man is grinning, lips twisted sharply to one side. Adrian is hard, untouched, and Eddie sweeps a long, leisurely gaze up and down his kneeling body, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

"You're a big boy, right?" Eddie pats him on the cheek, and then his hands are gone. "Take care of yourself."

The meaning isn't lost on Adrian, who smiles while meeting the other man's eyes, lips curved because he _does_ appreciate that this man is still The Comedian at heart, one of many in a city full of them, exiting on a punchline with the MC calling out from stage left, _goodnight, ladies and gentlemen, hope you enjoyed the show._

He waits until Eddie has has left his office, waits until the footsteps fade away. Waits for the rumbling of the elevator doors rolling shut before he grabs his cock and strokes himself, fingers slicking up against precome and sweat and the proof of his own humanity until he comes in long, hard spurts, forehead pressed up against the cool surface of the window, eyes open and forcing himself to look at this wide, sprawling seascape of lights and sound and life, his own face mirrored in it all.

[#]

Months later, Veidt Enterprises has signed a five billion dollar deal with a Taiwanese semiconductor firm, leaving tens of thousands of Americans unemployed in an already unstable job market. The resulting strike against Veidt products drops the VDT listing by thirty points; politicians condemn him and the protest line stretches for blocks around the headquarters building, but Adrian doesn't disappoint his shareholders. A timely product launch through one of the corporation's distant subsidiary companies offsets the multimillion dollar losses until the strike ends and everything returns to normal, as always, as planned.

This time, he's not surprised when the lights turn off and a pair of hands wind themselves around his throat, when the back of his head meets the window behind him in an explosion of patriotic retribution, his legs forced apart and the promise of equilibrium immediate, one step closer.

[#]


End file.
